The Beth Book
elsewhere. The sphere is the stable he ties her up in when he does not
want her, and takes her from again to drag him out of a difficulty, or
up to some distinction, just as it suits himself.
Mrs. Caldwell and Beth waited for Mrs. Richardson to commit herself,
but gave her no further help.
"The truth is," she recommenced desperately, "we have lost an
excellent pupil. His people have been informed that he was carrying on
an intrigue with a girl in this place, and have taken him away at a
moment's notice."
"And what has that to do with us?" Mrs. Caldwell asked politely.
"The girl is said to be your daughter."
"This is my eldest daughter at home," Mrs. Caldwell answered. "She is
not yet fourteen."
"But she's a very big girl," Mrs. Richardson faltered.
"Who is this person, this pupil you allude to?" Mrs. Caldwell asked
superciliously.
"He is the son of wealthy Nottingham people."
"Ah! lace manufacturers, I suppose," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined.
"Yes--s," Mrs. Richardson acknowledged with reluctance. She
associated, as she was expected to do, with gentlemen who debauched
themselves freely, but would have scorned the acquaintance of a
shopman of saintly life.
"Then certainly not a proper acquaintance for my daughter," Mrs.
Caldwell decided, with the manner of a county lady speaking to a
person whom she knows to be nobody by birth. "Beth, will you be good
enough to tell us what you know of this youth?"
"I was caught by the tide on the sands one day, and he was there, and
helped me; and I always spoke to him afterwards. I thought I ought,
for politeness' sake," Beth answered easily.
"May I ask how that strikes you?" Mrs. Caldwell, turning to Mrs.
Richardson, requested to know, but did not wait for a reply. "It
strikes me," she proceeded, "that your husband's parish must be in an
appalling state of neglect and disorder when slander is so rife that
he loses a good pupil because an act of common politeness, a service
rendered by a youth on the one hand, and acknowledged by a young lady
on the other, is described as an intrigue. But I still fail to see,"
she pursued haughtily, "why you should have come to spread this
scandal here in my house."
"Oh," the little woman faltered, "I was to ask if there had been
any--any presents. But," she added hastily, to save herself from the
wrath which she saw gathering on Mrs. Caldwell's face, "I am sure
there were not. I'm sure you would never bring a breach of promise
case--I'm sure it has all been a dreadful mistake. If Mr. Richardson
wants anything of this kind done in future, he must do it himself. I
apologise."
She uttered the last word with a gasp.
"Let me show you out," said Beth, and the discomforted lady found
herself ushered into the street without further ceremony.
When Beth returned she found her mother smiling blandly at the result
of her diplomacy. It was probably the first effort of the kind the
poor lady had ever made, and she was so elated by her success that she
took Beth into her confidence, and forgave her outright in order to
hob-nob with her on the subject.
"I think I fenced with her pretty well," she said several times. "A
woman of her class, a country attorney's daughter or something of that
kind, is no match for a woman of mine. I hope, Beth, this will be a
lesson to you, and will teach you to appreciate the superior tact and
discretion of the upper classes."
Beth could not find it in her heart to say a word to check her
mother's jubilation; besides, she had played up to her, answering to
expectation, as she was apt to do, with fatal versatility. But she did
not feel that they had come out of the business well. It was as if
their honesty had been bedraggled somehow, and she could not respect
her mother for her triumph; on the contrary, she pitied her. That kind
of diplomacy or tact, the means by which people who have had every
advantage impose upon those who have had no advantages to speak of,
did not appeal to Beth as pleasant, even at fourteen.
Mrs. Caldwell put her work away at once, and hurried off to describe
the encounter to Lady Benyon.
"They had not heard of the menagerie affair, I suppose," the old lady
observed, twinkling. "Thanks to yourself, I think you may consider
Miss Beth is well out of _that_ scrape. But take my advice. Get that
girl married the first chance you have. _I_ know girls, and she's one
of the marrying kind. Once she's married, let her mutiny or do
anything she likes. _You'll_ be shut of the responsibility."
CHAPTER XXVIII
From that time forward it was as if Alfred had vanished into space.
Whether he ever attempted to communicate with her, Beth could not
tell; but she received no letter or message. She expected to hear from
him through Dicksie, but it soon became apparent that Dicksie had
deserted her. He came to none of their old haunts, and never looked
her way in church or in the street when they met. She was ashamed to
believe it of him at first, lest some defect in her own nature should
have given rise to the horrid suspicion; but when she could no longer
doubt it, she shrugged her shoulders as at something contemptible, and
dismissed him from her mind. About Alfred she could not be sure. He
might have sent letters and messages that never reached her, and
therefore she would not blame him; but as the thought of him became an
ache, she resolutely set it aside, so that, in a very short time, in
that part of her consciousness where his image had been, there was a
blank. Thus the whole incident ended like a light extinguished, as
Beth acknowledged to herself at last. "It is curious, though," she
thought, "but I certainly knew it in myself all along from the moment
the change came, _if only I could have got at the knowledge_."
As a direct result of her separation from Alfred, Beth entered upon a
bad phase. The simple satisfaction of her heart in his company had
kept her sane and healthy. With such a will as hers, it had not been
hard to cast him out of her anticipations; but with him, there went
from her life that wholesome companionship of boy and girl which
contains all the happiness necessary for their immaturity, and also
stimulates their growth in every way by holding out the alluring
prospect of the fulfilment of those hopes of their being towards which
their youth should aspire from the first, insensibly, but without
pause. Having once known this companionship, Beth did not thrive
without it. She had no other interest in its place to take her out of
herself, and the time hung heavy on her hands. With her temperament,
however, more than a momentary pause was impossible. Her active mind,
being bare of all expectation, soon began to sate itself upon vain
imaginings. For the rational plans and pursuits she had been
accustomed to make and to carry out with the boys, she had nothing to
substitute but dreams; and on these she lived, finding an idle
distraction in them, until the habit grew disproportionate, and began
to threaten the fine balance of her other faculties: her reason, her
power of accurate observation and of assimilating every scrap of
knowledge that came in her way. To fill up her empty days, she
surrounded herself with a story, among the crowding incidents of which
she lived, whatever she might be doing. She had a lover who frequented
a wonderful dwelling on the other side of the headland that bounded
Rainharbour bay on the north. He was rich, dark, handsome, a
mysterious man, with horses and a yacht. She was his one thought, but
they did not meet often because of their enemies. He was engaged upon
some difficult and dangerous work for the good of mankind, and she had
many a midnight ride to warn him to beware, and many a wild adventure
in an open boat, going out in the dark for news. But there were happy
times too, when they lived together in that handsome house hidden
among the flowers behind the headland, and at night she always slept
with her head on his shoulder. He had a confidential agent, a doctor,
whom he sent to her with letters and messages, because it was not safe
for him to appear in the public streets himself. This man was just
like the one she had met on the rocks, and his clothes were always too
good for the occasion. His name was Angus Ambrose Cleveland.
Just at this time, Charlotte Hardy, the daughter of a doctor who lived
next door to the Benyon Dower House, fell in love with Beth, and began
to make much of her. Beth had never had a girl companion before, and
although she rather looked down on Charlotte, she enjoyed the novelty.
They were about the same age, but Charlotte was smaller than Beth,
less precocious, and better educated. She knew things accurately that
Beth had only an idea of; but Beth could make more use of a hint than
Charlotte could of the fullest information. Beth respected her
knowledge, however, and suffered pangs of humiliation when she
compared it to her own ignorance; and it was by way of having
something to show of equal importance that she gradually fell into the
habit of confiding her romance to Charlotte, who listened in perfect
good faith to the fascinating details which Beth poured forth from day
to day. Beth did not at first intend to impose on her credulity; but
when she found that Charlotte in her simplicity believed the whole
story, she adapted her into it, and made her as much a part of it as
Hector the hero, and Dr. Angus Ambrose Cleveland, the confidential
agent on whom their safety depended. Charlotte was Beth's confidante
now, a post which had hitherto been vacant; so the whole machinery of
the romance was complete, and in excellent order.
"It's queer I never see the doctor about," Charlotte said one day,
when they were out on the cliffs together.
Beth happened to look up at that moment and saw her acquaintance of
the rocks coming towards them.
"Your curiosity will be gratified," she said, "for there he is."
"Where?" Charlotte demanded in an excited undertone.
"Approaching," Beth answered calmly.
"Will he speak?" Charlotte asked in a breathless whisper.
"He will doubtless make me a sign," Beth replied.
When he was near enough, the gentleman recognised Beth, and smiled as
they passed each other.
"Oughtn't he to have taken off his hat?" Charlotte asked.
"He means no disrespect," Beth answered with dignity. "It is safer so.
In fact, if you had not been my confidante, he would not have dared to
make any sign at all."
"Oh, then he knows that I am your confidante!" Charlotte exclaimed,
much gratified.
"Of course," said Beth. "I have to keep them informed of all that
concerns me. I brought you here to-day on purpose. I shall doubtless
have to ask you to take letters, and you could not deliver them if you
did not know the doctor by sight. There is the yacht," she added, as a
beautiful white-winged vessel swept round the headland into the bay.
"O Beth! aren't you excited?" Charlotte cried.
"No," Beth answered quietly. "You see I am used to these things."
"Beth, what a strange creature you are," said Charlotte, with respect.
"One can see that there's something extraordinary about you, but one
can't tell what it is. You're not pretty--at least _I_ don't think so.
I asked papa what he thought, and he said you had your points, and a
something beyond, which is irresistible. He couldn't explain it,
though; but I know what he meant. I always feel it when you talk to
me; and I believe I could die for you. There's Mrs. Warner Benyon out
again," she broke off to observe. "Papa was called in to see her the
other day. He isn't their doctor, but she was taken ill suddenly, so
they sent for him because he was at hand; and he says her shoulders
are like alabaster."
Beth pursed up her mouth at this, but made no answer. When she got